


Broken

by CaraLee



Series: Fantasy AU [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bruce Can be a Jerk Sometimes, Gen, Slavery, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 17:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3331835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaraLee/pseuds/CaraLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of a terrifying encounter in which he almost lost Robin, The Bat...Loses Robin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Master

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SisterWithoutAPsuedonym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SisterWithoutAPsuedonym/gifts).



> Dika is 16 at the time of this story.
> 
> Umbrella warnings in the series summary.

“In that case, why’d you even bother in the first place?”

The shout rings through the cave and the echoes bounce back to where Dika stands, still in costume but without the mask, his eyes spitting fire, though partly veiled by the dried blood from the wound on his forehead. Brutus feels his fear well up again and turn to anger at the sight, made worse by the field dressing around the boy’s shoulder and the copious cuts and bruises that seem to cover more of his skin than not, and forces it down for what feels like the hundredth time since this fight started. It is getting harder each time. “When you first began working with the team I was unaware how much time it would take from your duties and training here as Robin. I also underestimated the danger it would put you in.”

“So just like that,” Dika growls and Brutus feels a twinge at the deepening of his voice. When did that happen? Where did the light-hearted, high-voiced child of yesterday go? “You’re not going to let me go with them any more, even though I'm their leader, just because of the danger? I'm usually in more danger here in Gotham!” he gestured at his wounded shoulder “I’m fine Brutus, what-”

The fear-anger breaks through the storm walls and sweeps over Brutus like a flood. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t be Robin anymore at all. You have become a liability and were almost killed tonight!” he snarls, and plows on despite the expression of shock on Dika’s face. “And I’ve invested too much in you for you to get broken by one of those lunatics because you were too slow to move out of the way.”

He retains enough control of himself to be aware that he has made a dreadful mistake as a blank, empty look settles over Dika’s countenance, not swiftly or completely enough to disguise the hurt that remains in his expressive blue eyes.

“Of course.” The teenager says in a low tone, “I forgot. It would be a shame should anything happen to damage your property Master Varius.”

Brutus feels the twist in his gut and why, oh _why_ does he say what he does next?

“For once in your life be silent or I’ll whip you myself!”

The echoes don’t have time to settle before he is speaking again.

“You are no longer Robin. I have no need for a partner, as your absences with _that team_ have shown, and you have no need to be so endangered. Now go upstairs and go to bed!”

He turns his back and marches over to a weapons rack and begins placing his armaments upon it. Behind him, he can hear the near-silent rustling as Dika strips out of his Robin costume and dons his civilian garb, his breath hitching as he eases the tunic over his wounded shoulder, scrapes out the cover that hides the clipped potion of his ear, and patters up the staircase with steps no heavier than they have ever been. Then and only then does he collapse into the chair set in front of the great map of Gotham City on the wall and drop his face into his hands.

***

It is almost two candlemarks before Brutus exits the cave and makes for the upper levels of the manor. He bypasses the corridor that leads to his chambers, and heads instead for those that have traditionally belonged the First Son of the House of Varius and, these past eight years, have been home to the boy who has been his son in all but name.

He does not know how long he stands before the door before he takes a breath and silently pushes it open.

Dika isn’t there. The bed is untouched.

In a growing panic, Brutus realizes that not only is Dika not there, neither is Zitka, the worn elephant fashioned from scraps of fabric that Dika’s mother had made for him as an infant, the only remnant of his life with his parents. A quick examination of the wardrobe shows that most of Dika’s clothes remain, with the exception of two or three of his simplest tunics and trousers, as well as (strangely) the costume he wears to perform at galas.

Other than the elephant and the clothes, the only thing missing is the one thing that convinces Brutus that Dika has fled.

The small sketch of him and Dika, at the time only ten years old, no longer is tacked on the wall beside the bed.

His heart in his throat, Brutus pounds down the stairs, headed for the slave quarters. Alfredos will know what to do, he always does. He takes the final corner a little too sharply and nearly runs into the wall (the halls down here are narrow and low ceilinged and he does not fit as comfortably as he used too when he was a small child.) He makes for the door at the end, the one that leads to Alfred’s chambers (as steward he has a suite) but comes to a sudden halt at the flickering light emanating from beneath one of the first doors.

It is with a sinking feeling in his stomach that Brutus nudges the door open, not silently this time, as the old, unused, and uncared for hinges creak quite loudly at the movement. Dika looks up from where he is strewing fresh rushes over the floor near the pallet of old blankets made up in a corner. Brutus feels a slight twinge of relief at the sight of the fresh bandaging showing from beneath his tunic. Alfredos has taken care of that at least. The few clothes missing from the upstairs wardrobe are folded neatly on the rushes beneath the single wooden shelf in the room which holds Dika’s tumbling costume, its accompanying bangles and belled anklets gleaming in the low lamp-light.

Zitka sits on the pallet, tucked partly beneath the cover blanket as if to hide her, and Brutus can see the slightest corner of papyrus showing from beneath the tumbling costume.

Dika has finished placing the rushes and stands in the center of the room, (such a tiny little room, no more than a closet) still in a way that Brutus has not seen him since his parents’ burial, his hands folded behind him and his eyes on the floor. “Was there something you wanted Master Varius?”

Brutus flinches at the boy’s dead tone and, unsure of what to do, simply closes the door and flees the lower levels for his own chambers.

_What has he done?_


	2. And Slave

As Brutus turns away to begin disarming, Dika struggles to process everything that just happened. They’ve fought before, many times actually but…never like this. And while not exactly the most obviously affectionate man in the world, never has Brutus treated him this way. _You mean like the slave you are?_ A nasty little voice in his head taunts him. He pushes it away. Brutus has never truly treated him like a slave, he doesn’t… _He said he’d whip you_. The voice points out. _He doesn’t make idle threats. And he practically put you in the same category as that hideous vase on display in the atrium. An object. A useless object._

He doesn’t realize that he’d been automatically changing until he’s dressed in his civilian clothes and is busy prying off the hardened goop the same dusky shade as his skin that covers the notch in his ear. It’s harder with only one hand, since the one is rendered useless by the wound that madman had left in his shoulder. He flinches as a stray hair that had become caught in the mixture is pulled from his head. Silently, he snaps the golden slave-bracelet around his left wrist, the hidden catch that allows it to be removed giving an ominous click, and ascends the stairs, still caught in a whirlwind of broken-hearted thoughts.

He’d always thought that Brutus thought of him as…almost a son of sorts, not disposable, not a thing.

 _Guess you were wrong._ The sardonic voice chimes in. _At least you know now, before you made a complete fool of yourself._

He stands silent and still, other than a nervous rubbing at the bracelet, inside the door of the room he had thought of as his, taking a moment to look at it once more. An intricately carved wardrobe holds more clothes than he had once believed any one person could have, so many little things scattered across the room mark his years of residence. Trinkets he has picked up over the years. Beside the bed, a sketch of him and Bru-Master Varius from six years ago flutters in the light breeze from the open window. With a shiver, Dika reaches through the curtains and pulls it to. Pausing a moment to look out over the grounds of the estate, contemplating his chances if he ran. He shook himself.

 _Bad idea. You’ve used up your grace with that_. If he ran again, not even B-Master Varius would be able to rescue him from the full consequences, even if he was inclined to do so.

The great, four-poster bed, bigger than the wagon his family used to live in, with its rich blue curtains and many soft pillows, seems to mock him. He can just barely see Zitka’s tail protruding from beneath one of the pillows. Cautiously, to avoid jostling his shoulder, he reaches out and pulls the battered toy, lovingly crafted by his mother from scraps of fabric, free.

As if the sight of her released the floodgates, he is no longer able to hold back the tears.

He doesn’t know how much later it is when he becomes aware of his surroundings once again, prompted by Alfredos’ gentle touch on his good shoulder. Reluctantly, he looks up, aware that his eyes are red and his face streaked with tears and snot.

Alfredos doesn’t say a word, just gently ushers him to the window bench where he already has bandages and salves set up. In a few more minutes Dika’s face is clean, his wound is stitched and wrapped and Alfredos is gathering up the materials and packing them back in the box they belong in with his usual brisk efficiency, before turning to leave.

“Alfredos.”

The old steward stops and turns back. “Yes, Rikárd?”

Dika struggles to find the words for a moment, before sighing and drooping. “Would you help me move into the slave quarters?” He hears the catch in Alfredos’ breath and pushes on, “I just…I can’t stay up here anymore, I need…” He glances up and his desperation must show in his eyes because Alfredos just nods.

“Of course. I will fetch a lamp and we shall see what condition the rooms are in.”

Dika nods. In the past, Varius Manor would have been staffed by well over twenty slaves, and as many servants. Most would have slept on the floor in the Hall, however there are half a dozen or so rooms in a back passageway, Alfredos’s rooms and those that had once housed the housekeeper, head cook, head gardener, and other such staff. They are all empty now. It has been some twenty years since there were any staff besides Alfredos and the occasional temporary hired help. (And Dika.) With only Dika, bunking in the hall is impractical, as without the shared body heat of thirty to forty others he’d freeze to death the first night. So a room it is.

“I’ll be down in a moment.” He says, and moves towards the wardrobe as Alfredos silently leaves the rooms. He is already wearing one of his plainer tunics, and he swiftly selects two more, fighting back the tears that threaten to return. “Plainer” is a relative term and even his misery is not enough to stifle the sarcastic voice in his head that says that this is why the nobility gossips about his true position in B-Master Varius' household. That stray thought brings another to his mind that freezes him in place.

 _What use_ does _he have for me anymore? What if…what if he…sells me?_

He is unprepared for the terror that seizes his insides and has him weaving unsteadily on his feet. He drops to his knees on the floor, his landing softened slightly by the foreign-worked rug that he has been standing upon. He rests his forehead on his knees and takes several deep breaths, trying to calm himself. _He won’t sell me. He can’t, I know too much._

 _He could send you away though._ The cruel voice jibes back. _One of those little estates he has, the ones where no one ever goes. He could send you there_.

He viciously stomps on the spark of unease that flares to life at the notion and hauls himself once more to his feet. _He wouldn’t_ , he thinks viciously, digging up his tumbling costume from its place in the back, gathering the silken scarves that have been scattered in his haste. _What would be the point? Even if I’m not allowed to be…Robin anymore I won’t be any good to him out there_.

 _Well what are you good for now?_ The voice thought back at him. _Other than dancing around and looking pretty at parties_.

Dika manages to keep his scream mostly internal, only a strangled sound escaping his lips as he clutches at the side of his head, dropping his tumbler’s garb in a crumpled heap.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” he sobs at the voice. “ _Go away_!” He realizes that he is slipping out of the common tongue into that of his own people, and gives a quiet shriek of frustration. In a frenzy, he pulls the accessories for his costume from the delicately carved box they reside in and wraps them in one of the scarves. He drops the bundle on top of his clothes and glances around the room.

 _Zitka._ Despite his distraught state, he handles the toy with care, placing her gently upon the pile before gathering it all up into his arms and taking one last look.

There is nothing else here he dares take, though he gives a longing thought for the carved wooden songbird on the bedside shelf. It was a name-day gift from the Guardian of the great empire on the mainland who had been his own childhood hero long before he met the Dark Knight of Gotham. The same Dark Knight that holds a strange sort of grudge against said hero and would likely not take kindly to his dis-favored slave attempting to keep a gift from him.

Almost against his will, his eyes are drawn to the rough sketch tacked to the wall beneath the shelf. It is old, the papyrus a little crumpled and ragged around the edges. It is of him and…Brutus (because that’s who he was back then) from a couple of years after he had first come here. Babs had drawn it, with far more care than she gave to any of the lessons she received at the finishing school she attended. (A gift from Master Varius to her father.)

Hesitantly, he removes it from the wall and tucks it into his bundle. Hopefully Master Varius won't think of it or, even if he does, think it worth taking away, he hopes the same of Zitka. Refusing to look back again, he slips from the room and down the back staircase towards the slaves’ quarters, as silent as a shadow.

_Better to leave than be thrown out after all._

**Author's Note:**

> The Moral of the Story:  
> No matter what Universe you are in, Bruce Wayne suffers from some form of emotional constipation.


End file.
